


Tiger By The Tail

by Joodiff



Series: Joodiff's adult WtD fic from FFN [1]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, Explicit Language, F/M, Office Sex, PWP, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:29:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-S5 "Undertow". Sometimes anger and tension can take people to unexpected places...</p>
<p>
  <i>Adult content. Don't like, don't read.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tiger By The Tail

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Complete PWP rated MA for strong language and explicit sexual content. Broad-minded adults only, please. Don’t like, don’t read. Move along, people, there’s nothing to see here. ;)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

**Tiger By The Tail**

By Joodiff

**Her**

It starts with the locker room incident with Steven Hunt, with Grace’s fear and anger over Boyd’s total loss of control, and his stubborn refusal to openly admit to her that he is in any way culpable. And it only takes a completely unrelated misunderstanding – a minor, trivial thing – a few days later to escalate the simmering tension between the two of them into real hostility. They spend the rest of the day bickering and sniping, both utterly oblivious to the resigned looks being exchanged between their colleagues. And it doesn’t get any better as late afternoon becomes early evening, because neither of them is prepared to back down, and just as one starts to settle a little the other offers some new provocation. They don’t actually notice that their co-workers are quietly leaving for the night, so involved are they in the desperate struggle to have the very last word.

Eventually, there’s nothing but frustration and bitterness and words flung in anger that can’t ever be taken back, and when a particularly sharp barb hits home and Grace nearly gives in to the temptation to slap him the ferocity suddenly roars into Boyd so fast and so hot that it momentarily scares her. In all the years, in all the fights, she’s never seen him get anywhere near losing control with her, has never imagined for a single moment that he could be remotely capable of it, and for the very first time in their long association she starts to wonder whether it is simply naïve of her to believe that she exerts any sort of influence over him.

Clearly well beyond any rational thought, Boyd suddenly lashes out in what is certainly a blind fury – not at her, but at her office door, and the resulting crash of glass as the panel shatters under his fist is impossibly loud. It seems to echo long, long after the last shard of glass has fallen to the floor, and then, abruptly, there is absolute silence.

She stares. He stares. It seems that neither of them can quite understand what has just happened.

There is broken glass, there is blood and there is that harsh, eerie silence.

Like the glass, the moment shatters, and it is Grace who acts on instinct, quickly reaching his side as he simply blinks in surprise. She seizes his forearm hard, immediately elevates it, but though there is more blood than she cares to see, there is no sign of arterial spray. Grace does not think, she simply acts, pulling him bodily in her wake as she heads out of her office and straight for the first aid box mounted on the wall above the fire extinguishers.

Everything’s happening very fast. Perhaps they are both a little in shock. All Grace knows is that they must stop the bleeding before any other further evaluation of the situation can be made, and that is all she is focused on.

She actually yelps in surprise when Boyd’s free hand abruptly grabs her shoulder and uses her own impetus against her, turning her into him. In that second he’s too fast, too strong and too aggressive to resist, but as Grace flinches away from the non-existent blow that never falls, her surprise becomes blank shock as her back hits the cold concrete wall and his mouth descends roughly on hers.

It comes from nowhere, that kiss. It comes from everywhere. It comes from the high emotion of the moment, it comes from stress and rage and whatever it is that has always sparked dangerously between them. It’s a declaration of something – maybe of love, maybe of war, maybe of something else entirely. And it’s a long, long way from gentle. Some tiny part of Grace struggles to comprehend what is happening, even though there is no hesitation in the way she immediately kisses him back with equal ferocity, even though she grabs his head with her own free hand and rakes her fingers hard through his hair.

Whatever it is, this thing that occurs amid the blood and broken glass, it is primal.

Abruptly, he breaks away, steps back fast, breathing ragged, eyes wild – and just as quickly as it happened, it is over.

-oOo-

They hardly speak, not on the way to the hospital, not once they reach it. They sit side by side in the Accident and Emergency department, and while Grace studies the floor, the notice board on the wall and the faces of the other people also waiting in the brightly-lit limbo, Boyd simply stares straight ahead. Grace has no words, and it doesn’t seem likely that he has any, either.

She doesn’t want her mind to wander, but every time she allows her concentration to lapse, it inevitably does so. Again and again Grace hears again the explosive sound of the glass breaking, and every time it echoes through her mind she sees the dark blood dripping steadily onto the floor as it pours between his fingers and runs down his wrist to soak into his sleeve. But more intensely, the phantom sound conjures the weight of him, the arrogant power of him and she feels again his mouth claiming hers, feels again the raw intensity of him. And in the memory of the sound, the blood and the glass, Grace clearly feels the unequivocal, potent male hardness that presses urgently against her as they duel for the first time in a completely new arena.

_Christ,_ a quiet, independent voice in her head says. _What the hell happened back there? That wasn’t flirtation, that was open warfare… He kissed you… and he had a hard-on. He had a fucking hard-on. Would you like to psycho-analyse that, Doctor?_

A formidable-looking Staff Nurse appears beside the main desk, clipboard in hand. She calls out, “Peter Boyd…?”

He stands up, glances down at Grace and asks, “Will you wait?”

More than a little distracted by her thoughts, she manages to nod and say, “Of course. You’re not exactly going to be driving yourself anywhere tonight, are you?”

“Because I’m such an idiot? Yeah, I know,” Boyd says, and for the first time he sounds just a little rueful. He clears his throat, adds gruffly, “Thanks, Grace.”

She watches him walk away, trying not to think about the blood and the glass, let alone anything else.

-oOo-

He’s gone for more than an hour, and when he returns, his right arm is in a sling and the supported hand is thoroughly bandaged. He doesn’t look happy, and Grace isn’t even slightly surprised. As he draws near, she asks, “Well?”

“Eleven stitches,” Boyd says, and his tone is distinctly brusque. “No tendon damage.”

“You’ve been lucky, then. As usual.”

He gives her a look, says, “Yeah, I really feel lucky. I thought all the bastard doors and windows were supposed to be glazed with that toughened stuff…? Or is Health and Safety far more concerned about stupid – “

“Oh, stop it,” Grace says as she stands up, and she’s more than a little irritable herself. “It’s your own fault. You’re such an idiot, Boyd. This is exactly what I mean when I say – “

“Don’t start, Grace. For God’s sake don’t start. I’ve had more than enough for one day.”

Indignantly, she responds with, “You’ve had enough? What about me? I’m the one who – “

“Don’t do this,” Boyd says sharply. “I mean it.”

“I’m quite sure you do,” Grace snaps back as her own anger rises. “And if I don’t want to meekly fall into line? What will you do then, Boyd? Hit me? Kiss me? What? What exactly will you do?”

He stares at her, expression suddenly completely unreadable. Grace suspects she’s hit a nerve, but she has no intention of apologising. It’s been a long, hard and very strange day, and it seems neither of them has much patience left. Instead, she fishes in her bag for her car keys and says, “It’s late. We’d better get going.”

“Go home, Grace,” Boyd says quietly. There’s no trace of anger or resentment, he just seems weary. He even offers her a slight, tentative smile. “Go on. I’ll get a cab.”

Perhaps she should argue, but she’s actually too exhausted herself. She says, “Sure?”

“You may not believe it, but I’m a grown-up,” he says wryly. “I think I can manage.”

Maybe it’s for the best. Grace nods, “Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You will,” he agrees. He moves to walk away, hesitates and finally says, “Grace? Thank you.”

Only a little sardonically, she says, “You’re welcome.”

-oOo-

Grace does not have a restful night. She dreams of blood and sex, and every time she wakes it seems as if too little time has passed since her last anxious glance at the clock. Her dreams are too vivid and the impulse to dwell upon them is too strong. Dreams and reality wind themselves inextricably together, arousing her, embarrassing her, tormenting and goading her. She dreams of him. She dreams of her. She dreams of things that never were and things that can never be. Asleep, she dreams; awake, she remembers. She thinks she still has the taste of him, the smell of him. She imagines she can still feel the intoxicating hardness of him pressing against her stomach.

_Dear God,_ the voice of her thoughts says as she stares up into the darkness. _You’re too old to be thinking like this… feeling like this… Too old and far too wise. It was just a moment, a stupid, accidental moment. It was nothing. Just… nothing. You know what men are like… and Boyd is more dysfunctional than most. Are you actually surprised that he got turned on by it all? Grace, you’re a psychologist, for heaven’s sake, and you know how exactly how fired up he gets… Sex and anger – it’s all just passion, in the end._

She sleeps, she wakes. She dreams, she frets. She thinks about the dry heat of his skin; she thinks about the way the close proximity and the strong, harsh artificial light revealed all the colours of his eyes. Tiger’s eyes, green, gold and brown. She thinks about too many dangerous, forbidden things.

_You want him,_ the voice says accusingly. _Admit it, Grace. Heaven help you, you want him. You want to find out for yourself just exactly how hot that fire really burns. And you don’t care that it just might be hot enough to totally consume you..._

-oOo-

There’s no blood and no glass. The cleaners have done their job. But there is empty space where the upper glass panel of her office door should be, and Grace sees the quick, knowing glances that are exchanged in the squad room when Boyd marches in. He may have eschewed the sling, but his bandaged hand is as blatantly obvious as the missing pane of glass, and Grace knows that the equation is a very simple one for anyone in the CCU. But no-one says anything, certainly not in her earshot and – she rightly assumes – definitely not in his.

Mid-morning, they all settle around the squad room’s central desks for an end-of-week team meeting. With no currently active case to dissect, it’s an ordinary, mundane affair, a broad catch-up on dozens of lines of investigation, a pooling of acquired knowledge. It’s a bread and butter sort of meeting, nothing spectacular or controversial. Tedious and routine. Grace ends up sitting next to Felix, Stella next to Spencer. Boyd paces, sits, paces again, switches chairs. Paces some more. He’s bored, and they all know it. He likes the dramatic, high-profile cases, likes the call to action. He does not like listening to the tiresome minutiae of dozens of cases that may never go anywhere.

_He kissed you, Grace. He pushed you up against that wall just over there, and he kissed you._

She concentrates hard, trying to drown out the accusatory voice. She can see exactly where the meeting’s heading. Boyd’s patience is wearing thin, and very soon he is either going to lose his temper over some irrelevant piece of trivia, or he is going to start bouncing off the walls. Figuratively speaking. Either will bring the meeting to a premature end. As discreetly as she can, Grace watches him, waiting for the tell-tale signs. He sits down again, far too casually taking the chair opposite hers, and quietly puts his reading glasses on.

Stella’s saying, “…and DI Merchant from Lewisham thinks – “

Boyd’s timing is so precise that despite everything Grace has to resist the temptation to applaud. He catapults out of his chair making all of them – Grace included – jump, and he’s next to Stella so inexplicably fast that he can pluck the sheet of paper containing her notes out of her hand before she has a chance to do anything. Loud and staccato, he starts at the top of the page, “Kingston case – on hold. New DNA for Lambeth murder – refer it. Chelsea robbery – not interested. Possible link between Lewisham drug-ring and unidentified body in river – not our problem. Howard murder – archived. Firearm from Asquith case – sent to lab. Dalston murder – no progress. Crouch End murder – already referred. Done.”

“Did he actually draw breath at all?” Felix asks Grace, her tone wry.

She shakes her head, “I don’t think he did, no.”

_That wall. Just over there. He kissed you, and God help you, Grace, you wanted more..._

Stella’s looking faintly disconcerted. She’s been with the Cold Case Unit for several months but she still doesn’t really seem to know the best way to cope with the wilder extremes of Boyd’s eccentricities. Grace feels vaguely sorry for her. Stella tries hard to please, and after a difficult start she’s settled in well, but in many ways she’s a little too like her temperamental, impetuous boss for her own good – and maybe that’s why she seems to find it difficult to settle on a successful approach to dealing with the way he does things.

_You can pretend all you like, but it happened. Right here in the squad room._

Boyd’s looking around with a distinct air of challenge, “Anyone got anything to add? No? Good.” A tiny pause. “Well? Haven’t you all got work to be getting on with?”

“You’ve got to love the management style in this place,” Felix says, darkly sardonic.

-oOo-

The day passes, and somehow Grace finds it relatively easy to keep out of Boyd’s way. When their paths do cross they are insulated by the presence of one or another of their colleagues, and as far as she is concerned that’s a very good thing. She thinks she needs time to get things back into perspective. Time to shrug off the events of the night before as something meaningless and unimportant. There is a brief and potentially dangerous encounter on the stairs where they come far too close to walking into each other, each of them evidently as preoccupied as the other, but it passes quickly enough when Boyd simply steps aside for her with a slight, almost hesitant smile.

They speak briefly when someone from maintenance arrives to replace the broken panel in her door, but neither of them say very much. It strikes Grace that as the hours pass the unspoken thing between them becomes more, rather than less, awkward. Time, she tells herself. That’s all it will take. The new panel in her door has an oddly calming effect on her, as if she once again has a barricade she can hide behind, and she eventually settles to work with a will. She doesn’t notice that what little natural light there is slowly disappearing, and she barely registers the stillness and quiet that falls as afternoon once again turns relentlessly to evening.

When she finally glances at the clock, Grace is amazed how late it is. It’s already well past nine and the squad room is empty. She doesn’t remember any farewells from her colleagues, but she knows they wouldn’t have left without calling a good night to her. It’s time to go home for the weekend. Long past time, in fact.

_He kissed you,_ the traitorous voice reminds her, from nowhere.

Grace glances up again, this time in the direction of Boyd’s office. The lights are on and he’s sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves, head down over whatever it is he’s doing. There’s something quietly purposeful about the way he’s sitting, as if he has no intention of moving until he’s finished whatever his current task is. The whiskey bottle is out of the drawer and on his desk, but there’s no sign of a glass. Yet. Maybe just the presence of the bottle is enough of an incentive to keep him going for as long as he needs to. Grace has no idea how he manages to put in the hours he does and still be capable of coherent thought by the end of the week.

She isn’t going to follow his example. She’s tired after the restlessness of the preceding night, and she is going to go home.

Still, even if there is a touch of an atmosphere between them, Grace isn’t going to leave without saying a word. She gets up, leaves her own office, heads for his, tapping lightly on the door before opening it. Boyd looks up, faintly startled, as if he had no idea she was also still in the building. He says, “Didn’t you go home hours ago?”

“Manifestly not,” Grace says. Despite herself, she asks, “How’s your hand?”

“Hurting like a bastard,” he says bluntly.

“Well, it’s – “

“ – my own fault. Yes, I know. Thank you for the sympathy, Doctor.”

_He kissed you. And he had a hard-on._

It’s definitely time to leave. Grace says, “Don’t stay too late.”

Traditionally, he promises not to and then completely ignores the instruction. More than once he’s been found asleep in his office the morning after making such a promise. Grace waits for the words that mean absolutely nothing, but they don’t come. He simply shrugs and asks, “Why not? It’s not as if I’ve got anything to go home for, is it?”

“Oh, God,” Grace says, and the touch of irritation is genuine. “Self-pity really isn’t an attractive quality, Boyd.”

“I wasn’t… Oh, forget it. ‘Night, Grace.”

She holds his gaze for a moment or two longer, then she nods slightly, “’Night, Boyd.”

By the time she’s tidied her desk, checked her bag and put her coat on, he’s hunched back over his paperwork, apparently oblivious to everything else. Grace shakes her head slightly and leaves. It’s by far the wisest course of action.

-oOo-

_You’re a fool._

…Maybe.

_Just go home, Grace._

…I don’t think I want to.

_For heaven’s sake, don’t do this. He’s a damaged, dangerous man with some serious impulse control problems. He’s also a borderline workaholic and a poster boy for disastrous personal relationships. Oh, and he’s also your boss._

…Yes, I know all that.

_You can do so much better, you know._

…Even if that were true, that’s not the point.

_Grace… Come on. Just because –_

…It’s not about last night.

_For God’s sake. Just start the car and drive away, will you? It really is time to go home._

-oOo-

**Him**

Boyd knows exactly what people think of him. He knows his reputation for being difficult and demanding is richly deserved, and he knows he is quick-tempered and impetuous. He knows why he is stuck in a gloomy basement with a budget that is too small and a caseload that is too large. He knows he is a perpetual thorn in the side of his superiors. He is too good and too highly decorated a police officer to be completely side-lined, but he is too dangerous to be given the sort of command he deserves. The bitterness twists blackly in him, sometimes, fuelling the anger that burns incessantly over far too many things.

Steven Hunt was a mistake. A potentially career-ending mistake. But Boyd has the luck of the devil, and he knows it’s a mistake he’s managed to get away with. Which only makes him more angry. Truth be known, Steven Hunt was a mistake that is still frightening him. Steven Hunt was not a momentary loss of control, a quick flash of temper. Steven Hunt was premeditated. He remembers, very clearly, filling the basin with water before heading into the locker room to confront the man. There was… intent.

And maybe that’s why he put his fist through the glass. Because he simply couldn’t cope with her accusations and insinuations on top of his own dark terrors. But he doesn’t actually remember lashing out. He knows he did – the broken glass and the blood were very real. The deep cuts on his hand are real, and they throb sullenly in time with the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Grace is right. He needs help. The sort of professional help that will get noted on his personnel file in large, unavoidable letters. And his career is already well and truly fucked without adding yet another black mark. Witness the dark basement and the intense pressure to produce results where others have already failed. Sometimes he wonders if the continual pressure bearing down on him from above is a deliberate ploy. Perhaps they are simply waiting for him to crack so they can force a medical discharge. It’s not a good thought.

He won’t give up, though. Giving up is not in Boyd’s nature. And maybe that’s why he’s in the basement, too. Because he has the grit and the balls to keep going where others have simply given up. It’s a win-win situation for his superiors. It keeps him away from all the places where he could wreak endless, embarrassing havoc, it puts him under the kind of stress that might just break him eventually, and it gets them results where none are really expected.

Peter Boyd has become quite cynical over the years.

But there is another side to him. A quieter, gentler side that still has hopes and dreams. A side to him that he thinks might be the reason she stays, no matter how many times he lets her down. And if Grace knows that side of him exists, then maybe it’s worth continuing to battle against the darker extremes of his own nature.

-oOo-

The tap on the door surprises him. He was sure he was alone. He looks up as she opens the door, asks, “Didn’t you go home hours ago?”

“Manifestly not,” Grace says, remaining in the doorway. She asks, “How’s your hand?”

He doesn’t need to think about it. The gashes are deep, and they are still throbbing. He says, “Hurting like a bastard.”

She rolls her eyes, just a little, “Well, it’s – “

“ – my own fault.” Boyd finishes for her. “Yes, I know. Thank you for the sympathy, Doctor.”

_I kissed you,_ he thinks. The thought – and the memory – has obsessed him all day. He doesn’t remember lashing out at her office door, but he remembers taking hold of her with his free hand. Remembers backing her against the wall and kissing her. He remembers the softness of her mouth, the scent of her perfume. He remembers her fingers tangling in his hair. He remembers wanting her, needing her. Oh, yes, he remembers. He remembers the dark, fierce urge to take her, then and there, consequences be damned. He remembers forcing himself to step back sharply.

Apparently oblivious to his thoughts, Grace says, “Don’t stay too late.”

He thinks about his cold, empty house and his cold, empty bed. He thinks about the way she kissed him back, hot and fierce, and the look in her blue eyes. Ignoring the dangerous shiver that tracks up and down his spine, Boyd shrugs and asks, “Why not? It’s not as if I’ve got anything to go home for, is it?”

“Oh, God,” Grace says, sounding more than a little irritated. “Self-pity really isn’t an attractive quality, Boyd.”

Defensive, he says, “I wasn’t… Oh, forget it. ‘Night, Grace.”

She stares at him for a moment and then she nods, “’Night, Boyd.”

He watches her covertly as she returns to her office, looks down quickly as she prepares to leave. He wants to call out to her, but he won’t. He wants to ask her to stay, but he won’t. He doesn’t look up again until he hears the double-doors close behind her. The lights in her office are off. The squad room is empty. Boyd is alone.

-oOo-

He likes women – virtually all women – on principle. And he likes to flirt. He’s also quite vain enough to know that women like him. At least, they like him at first. Getting laid has never been a problem for Boyd. Making a relationship last is quite another story. Even the women who start out liking him a lot seem to end up disliking him intensely. He knows why. Of course he does. He’s too selfish, too impatient and too abrasive. And he works far too many hours. More regrettably, although he is easily interested, he is also far too easily bored.

Grace is… Well, she is different. She’s a little older than he is, which fascinates him. Generally, he’s attracted to women considerably younger than himself – and fortunately they tend to be attracted to him, too. But Grace is different. She has something; something he can’t quite identify. Whatever it is, it threatens to hold him utterly spellbound. And he wants her. He wants all of her. He wants to leave his mark on her for all to see.

Boyd is lost, and he knows it.

She’s inside his head, she’s under his skin. He doesn’t know how, or when, or why. He just knows she is.

And then she’s standing in the doorway to his office again, watching him. He thinks, just for a moment, that he has finally gone mad, that he’s hallucinating. But just as quickly he knows she is real. Maybe it’s the slightly pensive look on her face, or maybe it’s the wariness in her eyes. He isn’t quite sure. But yes, he knows she’s real.

Carefully, he says, “Grace…? Are you all right? Problem?”

She shakes her head slowly, but she doesn’t say a word. And he isn’t sure whether she means, no, she’s not all right, or no, there’s no problem. Either or both is possible.

_I kissed her. I pushed her up against the wall and I kissed her, and God help me I was a heartbeat away from taking her whether she wanted it or not._

He wonders if this is it. The moment when she walks away because he has simply gone far too far once too often. Maybe, he thinks in a flash of darkly inappropriate humour, she’s going to tell him he’s to expect a disciplinary. Sexual harassment, perhaps. God, wouldn’t his superiors love that. The chance to hang him out to dry in the most embarrassing way possible. But he knows the idea is idiotic.

Grace takes a single step into the room. Stops, still says nothing. She’s watching him with an intensity that he’s actually starting to find faintly intimidating, which is more than slightly ridiculous. Compared to him, she’s tiny. Fragile. But only in a physical sense. Emotionally, he thinks she may be a great deal tougher than he is. Or perhaps she simply deals with things better.

Boyd stands up. He’s hardly aware of it, but suddenly he’s on his feet. His desk is between them, his desk and maybe eight feet of empty air.

_I wanted her. The moment she touched me, I wanted her._

He wants her now. He can feel it in the tight knotting in his stomach. Feel it in the blood that’s already coursing hotly towards his groin. He wants her, and it’s a very primitive sort of want. It doesn’t recognise boundaries or responsibilities. Boyd doesn’t know it, but he’s grinding his teeth as he tries to suppress the sudden, intense desire.

Grace says, “Last night…”

_I kissed her. Heaven help me, I kissed her… and I was as hard as fucking iron._

Moving out from behind his desk and halting, he clears his throat and says, “I think last night is one of those things best forgotten about, don’t you?”

Boyd is ready for a myriad of reactions. He expects anger, frustration, perhaps even indignation. He expects condemnation and recrimination. He does not expect her to say, “You wanted me.”

_Fuck. Oh… just… fuck._

His heart is beating a lot faster than it should be. There is just one faint chance for him. They’ve known each other a long time, and Grace understands him better than just about anyone else. Maybe if he throws himself on her mercy and just lets her enjoy her moment of triumph…

Aiming for a humorous note in a voice that doesn’t actually seem to want to obey him, Boyd says, “You noticed that, hm?”

“It was…” Grace hesitates, raises her eyebrows very deliberately, “…a little difficult to miss.”

_Oh, God._

He knows he’s in trouble. And he knows he’s an idiot, but he can’t prevent a slight, smug smirk. He’s pretty much dead in the water anyway, so he doesn’t bother to bite back the sly, “What can I say? I’m a big boy.”

Boyd waits for the storm that will surely be epic.

Again, Grace raises her eyebrows. Calmly, she agrees, “Apparently so.”

And there’s something both deeply uncomfortable and terrifyingly seductive about the way she slowly looks him up and down. It doesn’t help steady his heart rate, nor does it help discourage the raging hard-on that he’s desperately hoping good tailoring is managing to disguise. Though from the way her eyes momentarily linger, the hope is an entirely vain one.

It strikes him, quite suddenly, that perhaps he has met his match in Grace Foley. And that doesn’t help, either.

_Christ, I want you…_

Boyd takes a single step towards her, testing the water. Grace simply watches him, her expression enigmatic. He’s never been able to read her, not properly. He’s never been accurately able to predict her reactions to things, either. Sometimes he expects her to laugh and she freezes on him. Sometimes he expects her to thoroughly berate him, and she just smiles. She bewilders him. She intrigues him. He sees things in her that perhaps go unnoticed by their younger colleagues. Maybe they sometimes glimpse the woman they imagine she used to be, while he – being far closer to her in age – sees all the subtle hints of the woman she still is beneath the calm, professional façade.

There is something in Boyd that is often morbidly, wilfully attracted to the idea of self-destruction, the more spectacular the better. It’s not a conscious thing, not usually. Tonight, it is conscious. Tonight he may burn, and if he does, at least it won’t be for a stupid, petty little thing. Tonight he may destroy everything that means anything. He is mad. He is moonstruck. In every sense of the word. And she, of all people, must know it.

_Goodbye, career. It was fun while it lasted._

Oh, yes. Peter Boyd is the moonstruck hare staring up into the unfathomable mysteries of the ancient night sky, forever mad, forever captivated. He says, “Come here.”

He waits for her hackles to rise, waits for the anger, the contempt. Waits for her to castigate him, as much for the direct order as the intent behind it. But Boyd’s wrong about her again. Grace walks towards him, each pace more deliberate than the last. There is nothing meek or mild about her advance. She is not submissively obeying him – she is homing in on him like a lioness stalking her prey. And he likes it. A lot.

She doesn’t stop until she’s almost touching him. Boyd looks down at her, almost surprised by the heat in her blue eyes. But that surprise pales into complete insignificance compared to the astonishment caused by the hand that drops to the front of his trousers and very deliberately explores the hard, aching contours beneath the fabric. And it isn’t just astonishment that momentarily threatens to stop his heart there and then. It’s shock, it’s passion and need; it’s the audacity of her touch, the knowing look on her face. It’s everything. It’s just… her. And he knows damned well that there’s no way she will miss the way his cock jerks impatiently in response to the bold exploration.

_Okay, so I’m not the only one here with balls… Jesus… Who knew…?_

Nothing in the world is going to stop him. Or so Boyd thinks until she puts her free hand firmly on his chest, fingers splayed. Something about the way she does it freezes him, reduces him to simply staring at her mutely. And her other hand is still learning whatever it can about the shape and size of him.

Finally removing both her hands, she says, “So very strong, so very forceful. You could take whatever you wanted – but do you think you’re man enough to earn it, Boyd?”

“Jesus Christ, Grace…” Boyd says, and he’s well aware of how hoarse he sounds. “Trust me, right at this moment I’ll happily get down on my knees and beg, if that’s what does it for you…”

-oOo-

**Her**

Those hypnotic eyes look impossibly dark again, the subtle shading lost in the distance between them. And they are burning. There is no other way for Grace to describe what she sees. His voice is rough-edged as he says, “Come here.”

It is not a request. It is a summons. Grace can sense the shadows twisting in him, can almost taste the tiny, acrid touch of madness. She suspects he is almost beyond himself, that nothing outside what’s happening here in this room matters to him. It’s as frightening as it is exciting. But Grace is no coward, and she chooses to walk towards him. Not because he tells her to, but because she wants to. And the closer she gets, the more dilated his pupils become until his eyes appear almost completely black.

Grace stops just in front of him. There’s less than an inch of space between them, and she doesn’t need to touch him to feel the intense heat radiating from him. She looks up, wondering which of them is more mesmerised. Certainly there seems to be some kind of witchcraft at work between them, and she isn’t sure either of them is even slightly in control of what’s happening.

The voice in her head asks, _What are you doing, Grace? For God’s sake, have you gone completely mad?_

But she’s not listening anymore, and her hand seems to be moving of its own volition. There’s the smooth softness of cloth, the harsh, artificial ridge of a zip, and beneath both there is a hardness that is as natural and organic as it is thrilling. She watches him intently as she lets her hand explore the shape of him, the size of him. Boyd’s breathing is quick and shallow, and there’s a wildness in his eyes that has overtaken the fire. Even through the fabric of his trousers she can feel the sharp, autonomous reaction to her touch, and it thrills her, the power she suddenly wields over him.

He starts to reach for her, but Grace stops him, placing her left hand on his chest. It doesn’t surprise her how fast his heart is beating. For a moment she simply gazes at him, wondering at the control she suddenly seems to have over him. Then she allows her hands to fall away. Something makes her say, “So very strong, so very forceful. You could take whatever you wanted – but do you think you’re man enough to earn it, Boyd?”

“Jesus Christ, Grace…” Boyd says, and his deep voice is huskier than she’s ever heard it. There’s a very real growl of frustration in the way he adds, “Trust me, right at this moment I’ll happily get down on my knees and beg, if that’s what does it for you.”

_What are you going to do now, Grace? Are you really going to be stupid enough to –_

She says, “Close your eyes.”

She wonders if he will. She wonders how much control she actually has. It’s dangerous, this game, and it’s intensely, unbearably exciting. Grace knows what will happen if she makes an error of judgement. She can see it in him, the dark, primitive hunger that goes far deeper than any veneer of civilisation. Boyd is an alpha male, a natural aggressor. Will he take her against her will? If she tells him ‘no’ and means it? No, of course not. He utterly despises the sort of men who choose to step over that particular line. But Boyd isn’t a confused teenager, or a socially inept outsider. He is experienced, he knows women. He knows her. He knows there are rules, just as he knows – just as they both know – she has already tacitly consented by deliberately choosing to be here. If Grace makes a mistake, he will be on her in a heartbeat. This is a game – a dangerous, erotic game, one she has elected to play.

Again, and with more force, she says, “Close your eyes.”

Finally, Boyd does so, lifting his chin a fraction in unconscious defiance. He’s absolutely still, save for the quick rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, shallow and light; but the tendons in his neck are taut, standing out clearly and causing distinct shadows against his pale skin, and Grace has no doubt about how tense he is. For now, she has control, but it’s only as strong as the control he has over himself. And the issue of his inability to stay in control is exactly what started this… this… whatever it is that’s happening between them.

She wants him. She wants him in ways that are primeval and elemental. She wants him more than she’s wanted any man for a long, long time. There’s a hungry, edgy tension in the pit of her stomach, and there’s a deep, undeniable ache between her thighs that is moist and hot and needy. Oh, yes, Grace wants him. But maybe she also wants to attempt to teach him something about control, a lesson that perhaps he is too stubborn to learn any other way.

Grace edges round him, still very close, stops behind him and leans in, pressing against his shoulders, his back, his buttocks. She feels the shudder that goes through him, feels the way his breathing speeds up even more. But all credit to him, Boyd holds position, doesn’t break under the extreme provocation. He’s very warm, and his shirt is very thin, and there’s more muscle to him than she actually expected. And that’s incredibly exciting, too.

-oOo-

**Him**

All his other senses are suddenly intensely acute. Boyd wonders if that was her intention. He keeps his eyes shut, but he’s still perilously close to sensory overload. The feel of her body pressing against his back, hot and urgent, is not as dangerous as the smell of her. The harsh, artificial scent of her perfume – usually more than pleasant – actually irritates him. He lifts his head a touch more, scenting the air. It’s there, subtle but quite distinct, the natural, female aroma. It’s cut with something crisp – soap, perhaps – and with that damned perfume, but it’s there. Female. Very definitely female.

_Oh, sweet mother of… I am going to fuck you so hard… Dear God Almighty…_

He feels like he’s eighteen again. Eighteen and as horny as –

_Oh… fuck…_

She’s reached round, and damn the bloody woman if she hasn’t got his zip down in one easy move.

_This is not good…_

He thinks there’s a good chance he’s going to come the minute she puts a hand on him. Which will just about wrap it up for him in the complete mortification stakes. Boyd doesn’t see a way back from that particular humiliation.

_What are you, Peter? Fifty-something or fifteen? Get a grip. Oh, bad phrasing… Very, very bad. I am in so much trouble here…_

She’s found a way into his shorts, and yes, her fingers are curling hotly around him, and suddenly Boyd feels like he is nothing but cock and balls, and frantic, obsessive need. And Grace is breathing fast, too, which tells him everything he needs to know about this stupidly dangerous game they are playing. And, hello, suddenly his aching, desperate hardness is free from confinement and it’s rearing up into her hand, soliciting her touch. There’s something hellishly experienced in the way she does what she does… and, damn the whole world to hell, it feels good. Whatever tiny part of Boyd’s brain that still has any ability for rational thought is utterly amazed that he isn’t coming, there and then, with her body pressed against him and her hand stroking his cock in that heated but very deliberate way.

It’s too much. He’s a long, long way past his limits already. Boyd’s eyes snap open and he growls and turns in to her.

-oOo-

**Her**

He’s very fast and he’s very strong. And he isn’t playing, either. Suddenly Grace thinks she understands all too clearly the old idiom about having a tiger by the tail. But she’s lost her grip on this particular tiger, and just as she has already predicted, he’s on her instantly. There’s no delicacy, no restraint, and it’s immensely, terrifyingly exciting. She has no intention of trying to stop him – but she doesn’t think she could even if she wanted to. But this isn’t a one-sided battle – for a battle it seems to be – because she kisses him back just as hard, and when Boyd bites, so does she; and when she grabs at his neck, she thinks she may actually have drawn blood with her fingernails. He doesn’t seem to notice; or, if he does, he simply doesn’t care. He has other things on his mind.

Grace thinks he’s going to have her right there on his desk, and she’s surprised to realise she likes the idea. The blinds are open, his office door is still open, and the knowledge that the building is never empty, even at night, makes the idea a tormenting, tantalising hell of fear and arousal. She bites his throat, and it’s far from a gentle nip, but it only makes Boyd growl and redouble his efforts to finish divesting her of the bits of clothing that are in his way.

_Grace,_ the voice in her head says urgently, as if trying one final time to save her from herself. _Grace, he’s really going to hurt you, one way or another…_

But she isn’t listening. Boyd’s got her exactly where he wants her, perched right on the edge of his desk, and she’s ready. She’s more than ready. She bites him again, and it makes him swear and dig his fingers hard into her hip as he forces himself closer.

Finally. Finally, against the hungry, aching wetness that is desperate for him, Grace feels exactly what she wants to feel. Maleness. Hardness. And maybe, yes, she feels the tiniest flutter of fear at that initial contact, because he’s certainly big enough to hurt her if he’s impatient or careless… or simply if he chooses to. She’s known that from the very first touch, the very first exploration. She’s certain he will simply drive himself home, certain that he will make her howl more in pain than in pleasure, and for a second she honestly wonders what kind of wild, dark creature she has called forth.

-oOo-

**Him**

Boyd sees it in her eyes, the sudden isolated flash of fear. He doesn’t need to be thinking coherently to understand. It registers on a fundamental level, both the fear and the reason for it. But then it’s gone, her fear, as if she has seen something in him that has somehow reassured her. It’s just a split-second, a tiny fragment of time. He rubs his cock against her, quite, quite deliberately, letting her feel the solid length of him, and that flares in her eyes, too. He doesn’t think she could be any wetter, doesn’t think he could be any harder.

There is nothing else in the world. Just him, just her. Just them. Just the incredible, slick heat as he finally starts to push into her. Boyd has reached a moment of almost surreal control and tranquillity. It won’t last. It can’t last. Just hearing her first gasp, her first shuddering moan, is enough to shatter it completely. He pulls back a fraction, letting her feel him, and for a moment he has enough control to simply rock his hips, edging ever-deeper, giving her body a chance to adjust naturally to the size and shape of him. It doesn’t seem Grace wants that chance. Not the way she arches and grabs at him, pulling him closer as her eyes blaze with an unnatural blue fire.

Forcing himself into immobility, Boyd grins at her, baring his teeth. He says hoarsely, “What do you want, Grace? Tell me what you want.”

There’s a wildness about her that’s thrilling, a wildness and a boldness. Her answering tone is low, strained, “I want you…”

Boyd shakes his head, “Not good enough.”

“Boyd…” she says, and the urgency in her voice matches the look in her eyes. “Peter… Please…”

He is dark. He is primal. He growls at her, demands, “Tell me.”

Grace is writhing, trying to force him into movement. She is heat, she is fluid; she is glorious. He sees nothing, he sees everything. He has a hand on her breast, kneading it, revelling in the hardness of the nipple against his palm; he has a hand on her hip, holding her tightly in position. The deep lacerations on his hand throb as he grips even harder, but he doesn’t care.

Again, “Tell me.”

“I want…” but her words stumble, whether from arousal or embarrassment, he can’t tell.

Boyd has the power now. Maybe not for long, but for now. And the triumph of it allows him a touch of mercy. He says what Grace cannot. He says, “You want me to fuck you, Grace? Is that what you want?”

Her pupils are huge, the tiny margin of iris around them vividly blue in the artificial light. She moans, answers him with a very simple, very tense, “Oh, God, yes… Yes…”

So be it. The dark shadows in Boyd make him thrust into her fast and hard, and he’s grinding his teeth again, hardly aware that the fingernails of the hand that’s under his shirt and gripping his flank are gouging far too deeply. Later, he will have a perfect set of crimson crescent moons there to remember this moment by. But later is a long time away, and all Boyd cares about in the moment is fucking her. And fuck her he assuredly does.

-oOo-

**Her**

This is not gentle romance. This is not cheap hearts and flowers that can be easily purchased on any high street. This is sex, and it is as raw and pure as she’s ever known it to be. Boyd drives hard and deep, and although his head is strained back and his eyes are tightly closed, he holds on for longer than she expects. Grace has no idea how, or why, but it doesn’t really matter and she isn’t thinking about much except the deep, intense sensations that are rolling through her with every imperious, quick thrust. She bites her lip, concentrates hard, tries to catch and hold the edges of the release that’s both promisingly close and too, too far out of reach.

It’s a sweet torment. Grace doesn’t care about anything but that dangerously elusive prize. She wants it. She needs it. And she’s damned if she’s going to be deprived of it. But suddenly he’s there, and he’s lost. He’s growling again in those last few hard, staccato thrusts; and he roars as he comes deep inside her. He’s heat and muscle and sweat, and he’s part of her – and none of it stops her involuntary groan of bitter frustration as he finally freezes, becomes completely immobile and completely insensible. Wherever he is, he is not with her. Not at that moment.

Grace is neither diffident nor naïve. She hasn’t played this darkly erotic game just to finish it in angry, aching frustration, and she releases the grip she still has on his flank. If he can’t finish it, she will. And she will do it eagerly and defiantly, too. She reaches down between them, but it seems he isn’t quite as lost as she imagines because his eyes snap open again and he immediately snags her wrist, pulling her hand away. The eyes… The eyes are calmer now, and as the light from the lamp on his desk catches them they are a soft, muted mix of brown and green.

Bizarrely, the neutral commentator in her head says, _Hazel eyes. He has hazel eyes. They just seem so much darker. Why has it taken you so long to notice that, Grace?_

“Oh, no. No, I don’t think so,” Boyd says, and although his voice is still husky it’s much more like the voice she knows. And he’s grinning now, too, most of the wild intensity burned out of him. That grin is sly, mischievous, but it isn’t cruel. He starts to move his hips again, and she’s pleasantly surprised by just how hard he still is. He says, “You think I’m not enough of a gentleman to finish what I start?”

_Hm… So perhaps… just go with it, then… He seems to know what he’s doing…_

Yes. He certainly seems to know what he’s doing.

“Jesus, you’re beautiful, Grace,” he says, and if she wasn’t quite so distracted, Grace might well have challenged him over the slight note of surprise in his tone. “So incredibly fucking beautiful.”

Evidently, he is not one of the world’s great romantics. Which is no great surprise. But he has other talents. He’s keeping a steady, encouraging rhythm that might just work, and when he reaches down with his free hand, Grace can’t stop herself from crying out and arching up against him.

“Ambidextrous,” he says, sounding very complacent. And yes, she realises, it’s the bandaged right hand that’s still holding her wrist.

The clever, dextrous fingers that explore and tease and rub are enough to make the difference. The pressure builds remarkably quickly, and she starts to tremble as all the muscles being held under tension start to go into spasm. It’s like liquid heat, a molten reaction that builds and builds. She shouts. Grace doesn’t know that she shouts, but she does. She shudders, she drives her nails sharply into his skin. And she contracts fiercely around him where he is still part of her, riding high on the intense, all-consuming pleasure of it all. She’s vaguely – only very vaguely – aware of being pulled up and into him with sudden improbable strength, and it’s only as she starts to drop gently back towards some kind of reality that she realises he’s holding all her weight and that her head is pressed firmly against his chest.

And that’s really rather wonderful.

-oOo-

**Him**

It amazes him, just how light she is. There’s lithe strength there, too – he already knows that – but it hardly costs him any effort to bear her weight. She’s thoroughly wound round him now, arms around his neck, legs around his hips, and she hasn’t looked up at him since she buried her head into his chest. That’s okay. He’s feeling more than a little shell-shocked himself. Maybe later he’ll suggest she counsels them both for Post-Traumatic Stress. Carefully, he edges backwards until he can feel the edge of the couch against his calf muscles. Probably a good idea to sit down, even if she doesn’t seem to weigh very much. Even better if he can manage it with some degree of coordination.

Mission accomplished, he relaxes slightly, but as he does he hates to think what sort of picture they make, slumped on the couch still hopelessly entwined, even if the movement and the inevitable softening of his cock has broken the deepest, most intimate connection between them. Funny how the actual absurdity of the mechanics of sex never matter in the heat of the moment. And God help them both if someone from another department who’s working the night shift takes it into their head to come wandering down into the CCU’s offices on the off-chance of scrounging something. But really he’s feeling far too calm and relaxed to worry about such unlikely eventualities. Her silence is starting to worry him, though.

Cautiously, Boyd elects for humour, says, “I’m the one who’s supposed to fall asleep, you know.”

“Not asleep,” her voice says, muffled by his shirt.

Opting to stay with what he knows, he groans, deliberately theatrical and says, “Oh, God… You’re psycho-analysing… Come on then, what complexes have I got that I never knew anything about?”

“Don’t,” Grace says, quiet and still muffled. “Please… just don’t.”

_Okay… I have no idea what’s going on here. Do I?_

“Grace…?”

No reaction.

_God, this must be a world-record, even for me… Usually it takes them at least a week to stop talking to me…_

Boyd sighs.

-oOo-

**Her**

As a psychologist there is a phrase Grace knows well: _post coitum anima tristes est_. And she can sum it up in a single word: guilt. The glory, the wonderment of it all is over. Suddenly she’s a woman who feels every single one of her years, a woman who feels that she may just have made one of the biggest mistakes of her entire life. The excitement and the passion have subsided. Now there is just the bitter taint of guilt and shame and awkwardness. And she really doesn’t know what to do. Everything is a mess… figuratively and literally. There’s a heavy, distinctive scent in the air – his scent and hers, tightly intermingled. Sweat, semen, musk. Sex.

Again, but surprisingly gently, “Grace?”

_What can’t be cured must be endured, Grace._

But she still can’t make herself look at him. Against his chest she says, “It’s late… I should go.”

Boyd’s answer is a groan that clearly isn’t feigned. Not this time. He says, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Grace… we’re a bit too old to be doing the whole embarrassed ‘this was a big mistake’ thing.”

He’s right, of course. Grace knows he is. The best thing now is to be pragmatic. She thinks she has achieved a good working knowledge of where he stops and she begins, has managed to work out whose limbs are where, and she puts her theories into practice, levering herself away from him, just a little. Boyd looks… dishevelled. No other word for it. And he’s studying her with a quiet sort of concentration that speaks of a surprising degree of empathy and concern.

Watching his eyes – so very dark again – Grace asks, “Is there really any alternative?”

“Of course there are bloody alternatives.”

“What? We studiously pretend this never happened?” Grace suggests. Sarcastically, she continues, “We embark on some torrid love-affair? We run off into the sunset and live happily ever after?”

“For God’s sake… You can be so…” he stops. Takes a breath. Says, “Believe it or not, I’m a simple man, Grace. I see things for what they are. This was – “

“Just sex?” Grace suggests. “A bit of harmless fun? A perk of the job?”

“Don’t put words into my mouth,” Boyd says, and suddenly there’s a hint of steel in his tone.

Without a word, Grace disentangles herself and stands up. She strives for a quiet dignity that isn’t altogether easy to find, given her semi-naked state and that accusing, traitorous scent that hangs in the air. She hears Boyd stand up, hears the rustle of clothes, the sound of a zip being fastened. She ignores it all. She needs a shower, needs to purge herself of the smell of him, the feel of him. There is nothing attractive about the stickiness, the mess. Funny how all those romantic films never show this, she thinks; the ignoble aftermath. But at least she is almost fully dressed again.

The very last thing Grace anticipates is the feel of his arms going around her waist from behind, the soft prickle of his beard against her skin as he kisses her neck with a tenderness that astounds her. His voice is quiet, “It’s Friday night, you’re going home to an empty house, I’m going home to an empty house. What’s the point in that? Come home with me.”

It’s unexpected, to say the least. She doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to feel.

Soft against her neck, “Hot bath, glass of wine? An attempt at a halfway-civilised conversation?”

Too tempting. Far too tempting. Grace says, “And then we accidentally end up in your bed?”

“If you like, but I was going to offer you the spare room.”

Strangely enough, she believes him.

-oOo-

**Him**

He has no idea what he’s doing. Peter Boyd is an impulsive sort of creature. True, he is more than capable of methodical, logical thought, more than capable of making decisions based solely on the evidence presented to him – it is, after all, his job to do exactly that – but he also trusts his own instincts. And he knows that what has happened here has changed nothing; he is still just as captivated by her – possibly even more so.

When Grace turns to face him he finds he can’t read her expression at all. There is uncertainty there, and amusement. There is something fearful, something rueful, something expectant. It’s a crazy mix, completely unfathomable. But despite all the words he sees no real indication of regret. She is a little embarrassed, but that doesn’t surprise him – he’s a little embarrassed himself. He thinks he may never be able to look at his desk in quite the same way ever again. But maybe that’s all right.

He doesn’t know what the words are for this. So he simply smiles at her, slightly tentative, a little wry.

It seems to work. At least, he sees her expression change slightly, become a touch warmer, a touch more affectionate. He likes it. It catches him in some wounded, well-guarded place in his heart that has never really understood the bitter rejection that inevitably seems to come his way. He may very well be difficult and irascible, but there is no cruelty in Boyd. None at all. And he doesn’t understand it in others. And women, he has found, can be very cruel. Not this woman.

He thinks he will kiss her. Gently. He thinks he will take her home and that he will behave like a perfect gentleman. He thinks he will wake her in the morning and she will be sleepy and tousled and very, very beautiful. And he won’t fuck her. He will make love to her. And she will be astonished by how it can be between them.

And maybe they will find a way.

It’s a plan. It’s a good plan. He kisses her. Gently.

\- the end -

**Author's Note:**

> "Tiger By The Tail" was my first foray into "adult" WtD fanfic, and was originally available on FFN. - Joodiff


End file.
